Chapter Twenty-Five
We land on a private airstrip amid Cessnas and small luxury jets, the sunset casting an orange glow.
Whatever recreational use this place normally has, it’s now been commandeered by Damon Scott. Five men in black T-shirts and military cargo pants wait for us with an arsenal that could rival a small nation. Large black guns lined up on white folding tables. They make me feel both better and worse—better, because we’re more prepared for whatever might greet us at the asylum. And worse, because it brings home how dangerous it’s really going to be.
Damon confers with the men in hushed tones, leaving me out of the discussion. I might take offense to that, but these men are clearly well-trained. I have no knowledge of combat. And I can’t contain my relief that he isn’t rea
